


Control

by NuMo



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Consensual, Knifeplay, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a different Kathryn Janeway and a different fictional character. Completely different. I thought I might try something else for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your whip comes down, snakes around her wrist like a loving lick of flame. She gasps with pain when the whip’s end kisses the exact spot it was supposed to kiss – the inner face: taut tendons, soft skin, so many nerve endings. 

In the blink of an eye, your attention is on other parts of her. Your whip falls faster and faster, but not in any form of rhythm – never in any form of rhythm. She needs the unpredictability of what you do – you know that, as intimately as you know, by now, all the rest of her body’s responses. 

It has taken a remarkably short amount of time to get here.


	2. Chapter 2

She soon becomes a regular.

Not in that she arrives at a regular time – her appointments are far and few between, and certainly do not follow any discernible schedule. And she might not even see you exclusively. She might choose other attendants when she visits. That is not something you would be told, of course. You like to think she chooses only you, though. 

You also like to think it was serendipity that she ended up being served by you, but of course you know she chose you on her first visit. Customers are presented with pre-recorded résumés and choose by whatever they like about them. Some customers request and of course get individual interviews with one or two attendants if they cannot decide from the recordings alone. You do not remember ever giving an interview, but then, of course you would not.

Each time you check in, as usual in an establishment like this, numbered appointments appear on your screen, numbers that brings to your mind the customer’s preferences, as well as scenarios tried and tested, or untried and shelved for later. You are trained to remember this; there will never be any other form of record, of course. You are trained to remember the customer’s needs, trained to forget faces or other distinctive physical features, anything that might identify them if you would run into them on the streets.

You find yourself looking forward to her visits. There is a spike of anticipation whenever you see _her_ number, and you take great care not to show it outwardly because if you did, you would never see that number again. You look forward to her visits because of her decisiveness and her, well, _niceness_. She is polite, the little that she says, even if you cannot, of course, remember the sound of her voice – but you do remember that you find it pleasant. Invariably, though, she greets you with a ‘good afternoon’, or whatever the time of day might be, and leaves you with a ‘thank you’, both impeccably pronounced, impeccably polite, whatever her state might be otherwise. 

Not many people like her are. You can expect them to be clean and healthy, the contract makes that clear enough, but politeness? Rare enough on the streets, much less in people like her.

You find yourself resenting that thought. Thinking of her as ‘people like her’… you shake your head at yourself. Thinking like this is endangering your job. And while it is not your day job, it gives you much more pleasure than that, so you take care to keep it. So you clamp down on your thoughts, on your anticipation, on the little spark inside you that says _you would like to remember her, don’t you?_

You know, by now, how to give her pain and pleasure, not too much of the one, never too little of the other. You know, by now, that pain spells pleasure for her, that she finds something in it not many people do. Bound she might be, blindfolded she might be, but both the helplessness and the pain give her the freedom that she seeks. You can see it in the intensity of her face, the looseness of her body when you take off whatever restraints you have used. _This_ is what you do this for – not the payment you receive, although that is ample. Some of the other attendants do it for their lust for inflicting pain, and sure enough that coincides with the customers’ wishes often enough. You, though – you do it because of the sacred moment when the person in front of you lets you take over, trusting you with her body, her pleasure, her responses. And she – 

From the beginning, you have known that was what she sought. To give in to someone, and walk away undiminished. She knew what it took, too – conscious decision, mutual trust. She certainly was new to the concept of this establishment’s services, you saw that the very first time, but she never wavered, never pulled back. And her choice did come easier, faster, each time she visited (because she, of course, remembers), but each time, a choice it was, and each time you felt honored by it, and honored her with every thing you did subsequently.


	3. Chapter 3

When you saw her for the first time, she was already blindfolded. It is the usual way – customers are not to see their attendants, but they rarely choose the blindfold. Some prefer pitch darkness, others resort to drugs (for a variety of reasons), some of the blindfolded ones try to sneak looks at you while you tend to them. Those are invariably reported, invariably never see you again. You do not know what happens to them afterwards, but it probably is not something appealing – the contract clearly states complete anonymity for both parties, and the establishment’s very nature gives it a considerable hold over its customers. 

She, so, had chosen the scarf solution, elegant in its simplicity, a little more opulent in its execution. Black silk, no lace. As was the underwear she still was wearing. You approved for several reasons; more elegant, more possibilities. You realized her bra and panty were not what she had worn over the day – the lines on her shoulders spoke of other straps; same on her hips. You did not judge, nor speculate – if she wants to dress differently here than outside, that is just fine with you. The whole point of everything in here is to make this experience as far removed from ‘outside’ than humanly possible, after all. Which is where, for some people, drugs come in; not she, however. When she heard your footsteps – you always make sure they do, at the beginning; this was the first time with her and you did not know yet that she liked that particular surprise – her head found you, unerringly, and she said ‘good afternoon’, her voice steady and calm. 

You liked that. 

Most people know what they are letting themselves in for when they come here – the place is expensive enough to ensure that. But there are always those who flinch, always those who back out. Not she. She knew _exactly_. She was in control, and had chosen to relinquish that control to you for the time being. Your safeword had been provided to her, of course, but you vowed to yourself she would not need it. None of your customers ever had. You understand, by instinct, just how far you can go, just what you need to do. You do not know exactly why, but you always have, and it is partly why you are so good at this. 

She might have chosen you because of that. Whatever her reason – you were certain, watching her even breaths, that she had _had_ a reason. You were certain she rarely, if ever, did things without a reason.

You liked that.

The room, of course, is yours, as are its accouterments. The small anteroom for changing (which she obviously had used), the service available to guide the customer inside once blindfolded (which you would bet she had not), the main room with its largesse. The four-poster, the fireplace (with real fire – such possibilities), the hooks in the ceiling, the large chest with two candlesticks, burning. It was not quite warm enough for human comfort, that first day. And though you can easily make it so, that first day, you chose not to. 

She stood just inside the indicated perimeter (‘once you’ve changed, step in front of the door to indicate you’re ready. The door will open audibly – feel free to step inside; an area of one square meter is free of obstacles of all kind. The door will close then, upon which your attendant will enter.’), erect if not tall. Not a dancer – her posture was more… serious than that, if elegant. Starfleet, you were, again, willing to bet. Starfleet officers have been in this room before, and they are somewhat recognizable in their bearing, in the evidences of their training. Training that allows them to separate their physical selves from a variety of painful input methods, but not all of them. First, though…

First you walked around her, your feet falling with audible pats. Not tall – a hundred sixty five, if that. Somewhere between slender and muscled; you were certain, at first glance, that her figure was not evidence of meticulous care but rather the contrary – some people simply do not care enough to eat enough, or work too much to eat too much, or both. 

Though she must have heard you approaching, though she must have been feeling your closeness, her face was still composed, her breath still calm. This one values silence, you thought, so you kept yours as you proceeded with your circle. It is beautiful, that face, you thought, and for a second you regretted that you wouldn’t remember it. But things are as they are, and your thoughts quickly returned to taking her in. Freckles on fair skin – not much outside work, or there would be more. Small hands hanging loosely, nails short and orderly, pubic hair fully removed by follicle manip. Feet – oh. Oh. Feet screaming for flats, and a massage (They got one, one day, as an afterthought. Certainly not _that_ day, though; it was not what she had been here for.)

Your eyes returned to top again, skimming over well-defined thighs and a nice, if a little flat, behind. Her hair, auburn with a minuscule scattering of grey, was pulled back into a clasp, practical and quick, the clasp itself quite nondescript. Indifference, again. You nodded to yourself again when you compared the lines of the underwear she must have worn until seconds ago to the cuts of Starfleet standard issue and came up with a match. 

Coming to a rest in front of her, your eyes fell to her breasts. You found them large, but not too much so, for someone so slender. You thought she wore them well. Not much sag for their size was another tick on the Starfleet checklist – regular workout is requisite for active ranks. It is only the admirals that get flabby. She is not among that number, you thought; not old enough to be. Your training discouraged more thought on the subject; speculation about her rank was not conducive to your treatment of her. You could see her nipples through the fabric of her bra, but a quick glance further down confirmed it was just the cold, not arousal yet. 

She is in for a surprise, you thought. She might not care enough about her body, but she will, before long, know that you do.

That day, you chose a full body bind. You took you time, starting with tying her arms behind her back, proceeding to her breasts and from there to ankles and thighs, until she knelt on your floor with spread legs and jutting chest. The dark, supple, strong ropes, framing pale skin and flushed skin, were a work of art. You regretted that neither would she ever see it nor would you remember seeing it. 

You had judged correctly – she trembled with muscles strain rather than fear or even pain, and her breath came quicker when you took a knife to her bra, leaving the garment’s tatters entangled in the ropes binding her, running the knife’s tip across tender flesh like the thinnest of paint brushes, leaving the minutest of red trails. You realized that the pain did more for her than the constraints. You kept them in place, though – the changes in blood flow and the consequent sensitivity of certain parts of her body were most assuredly adding their share to the haze of arousal you could hear in her breaths. 

A moan escaped her when you cut her panties away. It was the last sound you heard of her, though, even if you certainly had not ordered her to keep quiet. A valuable detail – she was perfectly capable of adding her own challenges to the situation. You filed it away for later, of course. At the moment it happened, though, you shivered with the sound of her voice and what it told you. Need. Absolute need, and yet no permission to herself to give into it. No, she needed more certainty. She needed to know that you could take control and deliver on that promise. 

So you left her kneeling.

Of course you watched her. Of course you judged her state by every perceivable factor: breath, expression, tenseness. Of course you realized it would take her a long while to give in. Of course you knew the exact moment she relaxed into her restraints. And of course you returned to her then, adding positive reinforcement with a bite to her swollen nipple. She shuddered wildly, but remained loose in her bounds, and you withdrew your mouth again and continued with the little gadgets you had added to your hands. The claw on your right index finger wrote words of red on her skin while the feather in your left – a rare outworldly plumage that would remain ice-cold throughout – both soothed and chilled those very traces a moment after.

She allowed herself to get lost in the sensations. Allowed – that was exactly what it was. You had never before seen such deliberateness. 

It made the two of you a good match. 

You kept her on the brink for ages, building up to an orgasm you fully intended to be mind-shattering. You never once, apart from your bite, touched any part of her with your mouth – you knew, somehow, that she would not want the intimacy of kisses. But your fingers, the claw and feather, the knife you retrieved at some point, all wrapped her in a cocoon of pain and lust so tightly, so expertly, that in the end, she came from the merest hint of a touch to her swollen sex. She made no sound. You withdrew your hand, and her straining intensified, and she made no sound. You returned with an ice cube, and she shuddered harder, and she made no sound. You lost count of the number of her orgasms or rather, the time she spent in orgasm, and throughout it all, except for irregular gasps for air, she made no sound.

You thought there was wetness on the blindfold, but she took it with her when she went.


End file.
